


Modular Manufacturing

by ghostyouknow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Clones, M/M, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostyouknow/pseuds/ghostyouknow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael asks before he takes, but Castiel doesn't need Dean's permission to give. </p><p>(Or the one in which Dean is Michael's clone, and Castiel is the defective medbot who patches him up.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Modular Manufacturing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the surlycas challenge on tumblr, for the prompts "weird science" and "injury."

Dean came back without an eye.  
  
Castiel looked up when Dean walked into the apartment, like he hadn't been gone for two weeks. Like his disappearance hadn't had all the signs of an abduction. It had happened before, to similar ends. Dean had lost an arm, a patella, his tongue twice over. Sam had hacked into more than a few databases, so Castiel knew that Dean's disappearances coincided with Michael's captures, disappearances, epic battles. Castiel wished he could find the man and kill him, right after he admonished him, severely, for creating Dean and using him, as if he weren't worth more than his parts.  
  
Dean froze when he saw Castiel. Then he smiled. The movement moved his cheek, which shifted his eyepatch, revealing beige tape beneath black fabric. Dean had bandages beneath the patch. Castiel's chest compressed. “You didn't contact me. You didn't try.”  
  
Dean had done worse than fail to act. He'd _hidden._  
  
Dean shrugged. “I'm not spoiling for a fight on this one. He didn't take anything I can't live without, and I'm back, ain't I? Let's count our lucky stars.”  
  
Castiel wanted to look away. He hated that thought that Michael would take more than Dean could afford to lose. But how could he turn his eyes from Dean? He'd lost him. It could have been a permanent loss. It was a reality he loathed facing.  
  
He watched Dean walk toward their kitchen, which he'd kept stocked. Their space was small, as befitted a criminal's clone and a defective medbot, consisting of a small living area and a few feet of kitchen space. They'd shoved a bed against the far wall and hung curtains around the toilet and shower stall, as some previous tenant had knocked down one of the bathroom's walls. The amenities were for Dean's benefit, though Castiel had started to take a certain comfort in the space they'd made. He didn't know why. They hadn't achieved stability. Their presence here was far from legal.  
  
Dean noticed a bowl of blue oranges. Castiel didn't eat them, of course, but he liked their inherent contradiction. They were also inexpensive. “Shit, Cas. What are you gonna do when I'm gone for good, huh? Keep this place a fucking shrine?”  
  
“You shouldn't let him take anything. He's not worthy.”  
  
“You know that's not how this works. He made me. I'm built for this. If anyone oughta get the whole serving one's function thing, it's you.” Dean spoke with false cheerfulness. At least, Castiel presumed it false.  
  
“I'm ill-suited to my primary function.” Castiel didn't mention that Dean was far from a perfect choice, either. Michael had other clones—newer ones, with faster regeneration times and younger organs. He'd started farming in order to obtain greater holdings in the blackmarket organ trade, only to be seduced by the wonders of the cloning process. Synthetic parts were cheaper and more practical, but Michael didn't want to become a machine, just … modular.

Castiel's hands twitched. He wanted to care for Dean. “Are you hungry? Do you need water?”  
  
“I ate at Sam's.”  
  
Castiel did turn away, then. Sam was another clone, created for Michael's lieutenant and half-sibling, though Lucifer had yet to harvest anything. They'd emerged from their tubes only two batches apart, and Dean considered Sam a brother. Castiel had spoken to Sam frequently since Dean's latest disappearance, though he hadn't called today. How long had Dean been back? Had Sam concealed his presence? Why would he prolong Castiel's worry?  
  
Dean's fingers tapped against the counter. “Keep that up, and your face'll get stuck.”  
  
“You interrupted the signal. You made sure I wouldn't find you.”  
  
“What do you think Michael would've done to me if he'd found that chip? His people … they're good, Cas. They're real good. They already know I'm close to Sam, and they damn sure would've followed that signal back to you. You're a _nurse_ , Cas, not a spy or warbot. You're not built for what Michael would've dished out. You think I want you becoming a steaming heap of rubble?”  
  
Castiel had made a terrible nurse. His bedside manner was irreparably awful, for reasons no mechanic could ascertain. At least medbots had more in common with war machines than most—Castiel's programming, by necessity, allowed him to participate in human death. “You'd rather Michael blind you?”  
  
“Hey, I'm only half-blind. It's nothing.”  
  
Castiel stood and turned. He stalked toward Dean. “Let me see.”  
  
Dean's good eye met Castiel's. Slowly, he lifted and pulled away the eyepatch. Castiel evaluated the bandaging. It looked clean. “More.”  
  
“It's sewn, Cas. I don't think they knew what they were doing on the, uh, donation end. You'd think Michael could get more qualified people to do his dirty work.”  
  
Michael could. They both knew he could. He didn't care to, because Dean was a clone. Disposable.  
  
“Show me.”  
  
Dean pursed his lips and peeled away the bandaging. The lids were sewn together. The socket had retained its shape, meaning that someone had stuffed the space they'd emptied. Whatever they put there would obstruct new growth, if it didn't cause infection. Castiel would have to steal antibiotics from one of the mobile clinics. Haven wasn't a booming city, but neither was it without resources. “We have to remove the gauze and clean the wound. You won't heal correctly, otherwise.”  
  
“I'll heal fine. I just won't grow a new eye in its place, like a goddamn lizard.” Dean grabbed one of Castiel's hands. “Let it be, Cas. Plenty of people get along fine with one eye. I'll have to be more careful parking my baby. There's not much else to it.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“If I don't heal, maybe he'll think I'm broken.”  
  
“That goes against my programming, Dean.”  
  
“Maybe he'll start using the others. You gotta admit, he's hit me up more than my fair share. It's time he started carving up some other junker.”  
  
Castiel tilted his head. He knew Dean. He knew Dean couldn't mean this. “You'd wish this on someone else?”  
  
“You say it like I'm sparing anyone. I'm not. He's got others, and he uses them too. The dude's fucking Frankenstein. He's addicted to surgery or some shit, and his worker bees have gotten smarter about it now; they clones parts and stick them in people who don't look the same, so they don't have to hide out like me and Sammy. There's some supermodel running around with his stomach right now, or a schoolteacher with his liver and bone marrow. Who knows how far he's scattered them.”  
  
“He won't stop taking from you just because you have less to spare.”  
  
“You don't know that.”  
  
Castiel touched Dean's lips. He did know. They both did. Castiel had been a nurse. He'd seen the cruelties humans visited upon one another, and Michael was crueler than most. Castiel still remembered his first sight of Dean, pale and sweating on a stained pallet. Michael had removed part of his hip, apparently under less that hygienic conditions. Even with his advanced healing, the resulting infection would have killed Dean, if Sam hadn't pulled Castiel from the line for the incinerator.  
  
He'd been an irredeemably bad nurse, deemed unworthy of his own maintenance.  
  
Dean turned into Castiel's touch, but his tone held no give. “I don't want it back, Cas. Michael took it. Let him _take it_. Naturals get to stay hurt when bad shit goes down. Why can't I?”  
  
“Michael doesn't. Micheal's attempting to ensure that he never dies.”  
  
“ _Cas_.”  
  
Castiel kissed him. It was an outlet for things Castiel sometimes doubted he even felt. Right now, it didn't matter, not with Dean in front of him, alive and almost whole. He was furious with Dean's failure to resist, and his stubbornness, and his refusal to let Castiel _help_. He could stop Michael. He could heal Dean. He knew he was more than plastic and circuitry and failed programming. Dean had shown him that, even if he didn't quite believe it himself.  
  
Dean shoved him back. “At least let me get the eyepatch back on.”  
  
“You were just telling me that you want this injury.”  
  
“Yeah, but eyepatches are sexy as fuck. This—” Dean motioned to his sewn eye “—isn't going to be getting me on any runways.”  
  
“I don't care.” Castiel walked Dean toward the bed, then sat him down. He stood over him, stroking his face with thumbs, but also angling his head to shine better light on the injury. “I need to remove the stitches and whatever they used to pack the wound.”  
  
“My eye's gone, Cas. The things that grow back ain't the same.”  
  
That was human sentimentality speaking, even if Dean did claim that his regenerations ached when it rained. “I know how to prevent new growth, but I can't do it myself. I'll have to tell Sam. I don't want you developing an infection in the meantime.”  
  
Dean leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Castiel's crotch.  
  
Castiel refused to be dissuaded. “Rate your pain on a scale on one to ten.”  
  
“I'm good,” Dean said.  
  
“Enucleation causes headaches.”  
  
“You think I ever let a headache keep me from a hot fuck?” Dean didn't quite manage a grin. “It's fine.”  
  
“It's not _fine_.” Castiel surprised himself with his own vehemence. He softened. Or tried to. “It's not fine, Dean.”  
  
Dean took hold of Castiel's wrists, like he had the strength to hold him. “You're looking at me, Cas. I'm here. I'm alive. I made it back.”  
  
“You shouldn't have gone in the first place.” Castiel didn't know how the summons worked. Dean wouldn't tell him, and neither would Sam. Clones, he supposed, had their own kind of programming.  
  
“They'd have to take a lot more than my eye to keep me from coming home.”  
  
Castiel wanted to squeeze Dean's skull until it popped. He wanted to cage him in his arms and never release him.  
  
Dean leaned forward, pressing another, reverent kiss to Castiel's slacks. Sam had augmented Castiel's programming to allow for sex, but it would never be anything he sought. Yet, Dean chose this way to placate him, as if slapping flesh could make up for two weeks of acute, agonized _loss_.  
  
Castiel dropped to his knees. It was a slow, clumsy drop, even though he were capable of better. Dean's hand found the back of his neck and applied pressure. Their foreheads touched. Dean's breath brushed against Castiel's mouth. He wished he could breathe him in, but his scent detecting capabilities were targeted strictly to disease.  
  
“I want you.” Castiel wasn't talking about sex. What did he care about _sex_? It was such a small, sticky thing. And yet, it was one of the few expressive actions Dean allowed him, and Castiel had so much he needed to convey.  
  
Dean nodded. His mouth moved over Castiel's, but it wasn't a kiss. They couldn't get rough. It could jar Dean's injury. Castiel needed to clean the wound. His programming urged him to stop this nonsense and tend to his patient, _tend to him tend to him dress the wound help him heal_. But first, Castiel needed … assurance.  
  
His hands found Dean's thighs. He pushed lightly, spreading him open. “Stay still, or this stops.”  
  
Dean's fingers scratched through Castiel's hair. A small defiance. Castiel opened Dean's fly and pulled out the stiffening flesh he found. He opened his mouth and sank down. Slurped. Bodies were messy things. Castiel's mouth had its own lubrication, as it aided natural-sounding speech, but he would have to coat his mouth with more if he planned on doing this long. He didn't. He didn't anticipate Dean lasting.  
  
“Jesus, Cas.” Dean's chest heaved. It was intact for now. It wouldn't stay that way. Michael would want his heart and lungs replaced eventually, and not due to injury. Human beings, like defective medbots, were prone to wear and tear.  
  
Castiel pressed forward, relentless. He wanted to keep Dean. Envelop him until he were safe.  
  
Dean panted. “Look at me, man.”  
  
Castiel wasn't a man, but he raised his gaze until it met Dean's own.  
  
Dean's mouth was wet and open. His open eye was soft and dark. He looked … amazed. Soft. Hatred would have hurt less than this: Dean loving Castiel wholly, and wholly doubting his capabilities.  
  
Castiel pulled off. His throat brimmed with words of hatred and love and sadness and hurt and joy, but he couldn't speak them. He'd make Sam go through his verbal protocol later, in case he'd developed a glitch. For now, he took Dean in his mouth, and he made him come.  
  
He then lifted Dean—who only offered a token protest—into his arms and carried him into the bathroom, where he kept a basic stock of stolen medical supplies. He regurgitated semen and lubricant into the drain, and then started on Dean's wound, removing the stitching and gauze and cleaning the socket. He applied a bandage and the patch and said nothing when Dean banged his hip into the sink and insisted, again, that he didn't want to regrow the eye.

“It'll be an adjustment,” Dean said. “Guess I'll adjust.”  
  
Afterward, Dean pulled Castiel into their bed, for no apparent reason other than to hold him. He kissed his neck and sighed. “I'm sick of wearing his stupid face. At least this way, I won't look like him.”  
  
Dean was younger than Michael, but clones grew up quickly, even if their maturation slowed dramatically as they left their early twenties. He could've been his son. 

Castiel stroked Dean's stomach, noting its vulnerable give. Castiel's original programming had focused on healing, but knowing how to heal went hand-in-hand with knowing how to hurt. Sam seemed to think he was changing Castiel with each installation, but he was merely expanding the breadth and sophistication of his knowledge, as well as removing certain preventative protocols. _Do the least amount of harm_ , since you couldn't put a machine in the medical field and expect it to do none.  
  
“Hey, Cas?” Dean spoke softly into the velvet darkness. "Don't beat yourself up over this.”  
  
"You won't let me help you."  
  
"I wouldn't let you go after _Micheal_ , no. His freaky ass scientists, anyway. He'd have wiped you and Sammy off the map, and I would've lost the eye, anyway.” Dean ran his hand over Castiel's chest. There wasn't any heart, there. Just synthetic skin over metal plates. “I used to believe in what he was doing. Not the harvesting, exactly. The cause. It's hard to remember that now.”  
  
The c _ause_ was keeping Michael alive well beyond the limits of the most extended human lifetime. “You didn't know anything but your purpose.”  
  
Dean breathed deep. “It was just two weeks, this time, and an eye … that's mild surgery. I'm okay.”  
  
“I'm not.”  
  
“He'd take me away, Cas. You know that. There wouldn't be enough of me left to stick in a shoebox.” Dean kissed Castiel's jaw. “He makes me consent. I get the summons, and I go. They ask me again before the pop out whatever it is they're gonna take, and thank me for my service when it's done. It's a ritual or something, and the sacrifice better be fucking willing, or there'll be hell to pay.”

“Do they know about me?” Castiel asked.

“I only get off the leash because they know I'll come running when they call. You get that, Cas? I get caught trying to sneak out of it, and I'll end up in a freezer.” Dean's mouth trembled. The lashes on his good eye fluttered. Castiel felt them displace air. “Can't you just be happy that I made it back?”

Happiness didn't begin to cover it. Castiel was overjoyed. Overwhelmed. He slipped from Dean's arms. “I need to get you antibiotics. I'll return as quickly as I can.”  
  
“I'll be here when you get back,” Dean said, softly, as if he could offer any guarantee.  
  
#  
  
Sam was in his workshop, tinkering with a robotic arm. He looked at the clock when Castiel strode in, letting the door slam shut behind him. It was a petty emotional outburst, and it did not nothing to soothe his many deep aches. “You do realize it's three in the morning?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “You just thought I'd be up and waiting for you?”  
  
“I thought you'd be awake and restless. You worry as much as I do. More.” Castiel sat in his usual chair and started hooking himself up to the monitors. “I want to continue my reprogramming.”  
  
“Right this second?”  
  
Castiel shot him a disapproving look. He loathed stupid questions, and it wasn't like Sam was about to refuse.  
  
Sam sighed. “You know Dean won't like this.”  
  
“He doesn't have to.” Castiel wet his lips. A human gesture. He was reluctant to make his newest report. “My thoughts are … I'm aware of more violent possibilities. Yet, I still have the compulsion to heal.”  
  
“You're upset, Cas. Of course you're thinking that you want to knock Dean's head in.” Sam rubbed his eyes. “I don't want to get rid of all your base coding. We're trying to turn you into something else, not a whole new some _one_. Besides, that conflict … I don't think it's such a bad thing, especially with what we're doing.”  
  
“You want me to regret this.”  
  
Sam hesitated. “You'll tell me if it gets too much? If you think you can't control it?”  
  
“Of course.” Castiel didn't want to become dangerous to the wrong people. He only wanted to protect what he cherished. Sam had told him, time and time again, that it was a human impulse, and a good one. He knew that he couldn't take on Michael's army, but if he knew strategy, and reconnaissance, and a few choice military secrets … he could hide Dean. Protect him. Move him beyond Michael's reach.  
  
Michael might not care. As Dean said, there were others.  
  
“Good. It wouldn't mean we'd have to stop. Just that we'd need to make some adjustments.” Sam went to check on Castiel's attachments. He started working on the ones Castiel couldn't reach for himself. “If anyone finds out about this, we're all dead. You, me, Dean. I'm not supposed to have access to these codes. Almost no one is. If the government doesn't kill us, its enemies will. ”  
  
Castiel knew what he was risking. His potential destruction didn't even factor. “I'm defective and was already sentenced to the incinerator. You and Dean aren't supposed to exist and would be destroyed on sight if you're discovered before your creators … finish. This changes nothing.”  
  
“It changes you. It could change you and Dean.”  
  
Castiel closed his eyes and fell silent. He knew that Dean would hate him for this, and the thought burned whenever it didn't stab. But he needed to protect Dean, and his current capabilities weren't enough. Dean didn't trust them enough. How could he sit back and watch Michael shave Dean away, piece by piece? Perhaps that was his original programming. Medbots were meddlers, insinuating themselves between human life and its inevitable end. Warbots weren't much different.  
  
Castiel had been a terrible nurse. He hoped to make a better soldier.  
  
“I'm willing,” he said. “ _Please_.”  
  
He heard a soft whir of machinery, the one that signaled Sam starting his work. Castiel felt focused, his body far away and light. He didn't know whether to blame his altered mind, or his new sense of purpose, or the thought of Dean living an easy, whole life free from Michael's shadow. He only knew he felt … content.  
  
“This might sting a little,” Sam said.  
  
Castiel pictured Dean, and he smiled, knowing he could afford to exchange a few pieces.  
  
 _Fin._  
  
  
 


End file.
